Stormtrooper
by lostsword
Summary: Enlist into the Stormtrooper Corps and witness the most memorable moments in galactic history through the eyes of the Empire's elite shock troops. Live in the battles with the Infantry; See the plans with the Intelligence; and fly over it all with the Wing. This is something you will definitely want to read; ignoring this fic might leave you sleepless for the next six months!
1. Episode I: Stormtrooper

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN STAR WARS**

Episode I: The Infantry

_Loyalty..._

Their blaster shots rang out like artillery pieces in the still air of the crisp night. Half clothed bodies fell this way and that, each one ending up as nothing more than a crumpled heap in the dusty streets of the village.

_Obediance..._

A grenade flew through the broken window of a blaster-stricken home and detonated. The blast took out two of the building's walls and killed the half dozen victims hiding inside. Laser fire peppered through the smoke—just in case someone had somehow survived.

_Readiness..._

An elderly female was laying face down in the dirt, her face nothing more than a massive crater that spurted out streams of scarlet as a sobbing child tried to stem the flow with her slippery red fingers. The small girl would barely have time to register her mother's death, a blaster shot vaporized the rear half of her skull a few moments later and she suddenly left the pitiful world she had just barely joined.

The raid had lasted only two minutes in galactic standard time. To those that had called the village their home, it had lasted a lifetime. To those that had called it their target, it had lasted an eternity. As the last of the villagers were rounded up and systematically executed, the white armored soldiers formed up into patrols and began to search throughout the area. None would be spared.

"_This_ is what happens when you try to hide from us, rebel scum!" The lieutenant spat as he gestured at the flaming ruins of what had once been a lively village. Corpses littered the streets and pools of blood were forming around them. The entire image was like something from a horror holo rather than a real event.

The spy that the Stormtroopers had been hunting was on his knees, half his face bloody. His eyes were wet with tears and he seemed extremely distraught. The lieutenant wasted no time in snapping at his men to secure their target.

Wordlessly, a pair of white armored troopers approached the rebel operative and attached a sturdy set of steel binders to his wrists. The metallic confinement device made an electronic beep following a solid click that informed them that the binders were secure.

"Sergeant! Take him to my ship!"

"Yes, sir!"

With a harsh jerk, the operative was dragged away from his destroyed hideout as the Imperial soldiers marched him forcefully towards the awaiting Imperial transport behind him. As he was being led up the landing ramp, he heard the sound of screaming and more laser fire and stopped. The troopers in turn hit him brutally with the stocks of their E-11 blaster rifles, sending him flying forward into the unforgiving surface of the steel deck of the transport.

The lieutenant was soon aboard the starship as well as the rest of the squad followed him. The Imperial officer ignored his captive and headed up into the ship's cockpit to order the pilot to take them back to their command ship in orbit.

The Stormtroopers—excluding the pair guarding the rebel spy—slowly began to relax as they removed their helmets and slung their rifles away for the ride up into orbit. One member of the squad, the ordnance specialist, ST-22143, found his seat and quickly began activating the process of simulated imagery—better known as sleep.

He had once had a name—before the brainwashing and Imperial-aided orientation—and he supposed he had once had a life outside of the military. Regardless of what it had been, ST-22143 was what he was known as now. For practical protocol, it could be shortened to "trooper" or "you", but that was rare and in between.

As the shuttle began to shake and shudder due to the weight of the planet's gravity field, he wondered briefly why the villagers had to be slaughtered. The planet didn't seem to be especially important, but then again he knew little about astronomy or sociology. In the end, he retreated to the basic principle of Stormtrooper logic: if it wasn't an obvious issue, ignore it.

The shuttle soon broke the atmosphere and soon after that the vessel sailed its way across the blackness of space to the docking bay of the _Fallon_, an Imperial cruiser on assignment with Bravo company of the 9th Stormtrooper Infantry Battalion—a subordinate battalion within the 17th Imperial Legion.

"You two take him to holding," ST-32412—their sergeant—ordered ST-22143 and the trooper beside him.

"Yes, sir!"

Pulling his helmet back on, though he left his rifle slung, ST-22143 and his companion relieved the Stormtroopers guarding the rebel operative and then "escorted" him down the landing ramp and onto the hanger floor.

The hanger of the _Fallon_ was small and was barely able to proficiently handle the tie wing that was housed within it. The troopers marched their captive through the small display of fighter, bomber, and transport craft and ultimately to the hatch door at the other end of the bay. They then had to navigate through a number of hallways, lifts, and checkpoints before they had arrived at the detention center. Upon securing the prisoner in his cell, the two troopers repeated their course until making a minor direction change that then led them through another complex maze of passageways.

"Detail reporting, Sergeant Major!"

The two men strode through the hatchway that separated Bravo company from the rest of the ship. Before them, the company sergeant major was seated at his desk; an aide sitting nearby immediately made note of their arrival.

"Acknowledged, report to the armorer."

"Yes, sir!"

The two men, for all intents and purposes devoid of emotion, marched down the metallic hallways of the ship barracks and found the section belonging to 2nd platoon. Their commander, Lieutenant Calhion, was not present—as was the precedent set by Imperial officers—but his subordinate Staff Sergeant was. After reporting in with him, they then made their way to the armory, where the armorer collected their E-11s and E-14r blasters before sending them to the housing block allocated for Third squad.

"Detail reporting, Sergeant!" ST-22143 barked out as he and his companion finally arrived at their destination.

"Acknowledged, carry on."

The two Stormtroopers barked out their response in unison and then entered their barracks room. Squad rooms consisted of nine beds—known as racks—arranged in two double-rack units set against either wall with a personal unit for the squad leader—the sergeant—set against the far wall. Storage containers were stashed anywhere and everywhere that space could be found.

Still moving fluidly, the troopers began to remove their multi-section armor and gear and then they proceeded to secure all of it within the appropriate lockers and containers. Only after they had completely stored away their gear did they begin to relax—in a similar fashion to the shuttle—from "active mode" to "inactive mode."

Imperial Stormtroopers were the Emperor's fiercest troops for a reason; troopers are brainwashed following an intense period of indoctrination and physical training. Those that survived had little free will, but they were all but unstoppable killing machines. Flash lessons and simulators had given them the best minds, reflexes, and bodies; experience had given them the ability to apply all of those traits to combat.

In short, they were no longer fully human.

Not one for contemplating things, ST-22143 activated the locking mechanisms on his personal storage units before exiting the squad bay. The trooper, accompanied by three other troopers, made his way down the hall to the fresher. Inside, the four stripped down and walked into the fresher units set up within the room. As the hot water and soap mixture fell from the nozzle above his head, ST-22143 allowed his mind to wander a bit more—something he kept meaning to have checked by the unit morale officer.

It might just have been that he had come from a water world—or had it been a desert one?—but ST-22143 enjoyed the fresher and the cleansing sense he drew from it. He had no sense of morals—the brainwashing and indoctrination had ensured that—but if he had understood them, he would have realized the water was his way of cleansing himself of his sins gained in the field.

"Attention," a metallic voice rumbled out across the ship-wide com system, "hyperspace engines activated. All hands, attention. Jumping in...t-minus three...two...one."

The ship shook violently for the briefest second as the hyperdrive flared and the ship launched forward into hyperspace. Due to the surge of overpowered energy, the lights temporarily went out.

ST-22143 was left standing half dry in the dark.

* * *

** So I'm trying out this new fic, I promise I will not be calling our protagonist by his identification tag for the entirety of this fic. That would drive me—and even more so you—insane. This fic will also incorporate other elements of the Stormtrooper Corps. Review and let me know what you think.  
**

** Peace.**

** Lostsword **


	2. Episode I: Intelligence

Episode I: Intelligence

"Good evening."

_Crap._

Regald Uaira—known as Regi to his friends—had always been told that it would _always _be better to take his suicide capsule than to be captured. He had never thought he would be captured, so he had never worried about the capsule.

Now he wished he had.

Outpost 19B on Moloae III appeared on the galactic map as nothing more than a footnote. It was located in the "rightmost" quadrant of the "south" side of the Middle Rim. It wasn't a very appealing duty station, the largest city's population was half a million people and it was located literally on the other side of the planet.

The only reason Specialist Uaira had been stationed on Moloae III was that the outpost was in fact valuable. It was in fact _very _valuable. The outpost had possessed a very powerful experimental relay network. The hope of the alliance high command was that the relay would allow 19B the ability to intercept and transmit galactic transmissions from a wider range of the galaxy than the standard—if they could even be called that—relay networks used by the Alliance to Restore the Republic—also known as the Rebellion.

It had worked. Now it was rubble. The only silver lining in the Empire's characteristically brutal attack was that they would never be able to recover the network schematics. The flip of that coin though was that the alliance had no idea the network was worth its weight in gold.

"My name is Lieutenant Josan Eion."

Looking up, Regi found himself facing another Imperial officer. This one was garbed in the same black Imperial uniform of the elite Stormtrooper Corps, though he had a station pin attached that labeled him as a part of the Intelligence Division.

_Double...triple crap..._

"I will be administering your interrogation today."

The man sounded borderline smug, though he still retained a calm and collected appearance as he took in his prisoner's attire and demeanor.

"Would you care to tell me what you were doing on Moloae III?"

Regi held his gaze, but refused to answer the question or even speak back.

"I see." Lieutenant Eion made a gesture to someone standing behind the rebel prisoner.

WHAM!

Regi's world flew into spiraling halos of starfields as something slammed into the side of his head.

WHAM!

He grimaced as the same object—most likely a hollow durasteel baton—smacked the opposite side of his head.

WHAM!

A third smack left Regi with a bloody mouth, ringing ears, and teary eyes. He had tried to remain silent, but several—at least he hoped it was only several—whimpers and outright cries of pain had escaped from his mouth.

Before he had fully recovered from that, the baton—for he now saw that it _was_ a baton—came flying around into his field of vision and Regi felt it smash his nose in.

CRUNCH!

The pain was unbelievable as blood burst forward onto the steel deck of the interrogation cell. Regi cried out unrestrained this time, his mouth added to the blood on the floor as he howled and cried and panted with the pain generated by the nose strike.

"Would you care to tell me now?"

"S-screw you!" Regi snapped out as he heaved forward in his chair.

He didn't have to see the officer make the gesture this time, he felt the baton coming as if it were apart of him. The blows increased and Regi felt his knee caps pop, his shins break, and his fingers splinter. The wounds of course were not as bad as they felt, the worst damage was a fractured finger; yet the pain was real and Regi roared in his agony.

"This can go on all day," the officer informed him casually as he eyed the bloody attire the rebel was garbed in. It was nothing but rags to begin with, but now they were completely ruined. They would be replaced with prison issue.

"I...I...won't ta-talk!"

"You're talking now."

"Sc-"

WHAM!

The baton descended upon Regi for a long time, the guard really knew how to use the weapon to inflict maximum pain with minimal damage. He lost track of time, but he could safely guess that it had been at least two hours before the man holding the baton stopped wailing on the rebel's battered body.

"You're going to tell me what you were doing down there at some point or another," the officer continued, "you might as well get it over with now. You're only prolonging the inevitable, I've seen your type before; you'll be broken within the week."

Regi tried to ignore the imp as he and his goon made their way out of the cell. The officer made a parting comment about how they would let him think about it overnight and get back with him in the morning. All he could do was hope he would starve to death before they returned.

As if they could hear his thoughts, a guard arrived a few hours later with a delicious looking meal on a break-safe tray with an identically made cup containing some form of juice. Regi was tempted, but he knew that the perceived gift would be stuffed full with a cocktail of drugs designed to make him talk.

His resolve had to remain ironclad, he knew that much. But his stomach rumbled again and he glanced down at the meal longingly as the guard unlocked his restraints.

* * *

Stormtrooper infantrymen were not idiots by design, Lieutenant Josan Eion reasoned to himself as he sat in his office. They were trained to do one thing and one thing only: to kill the enemies of the Empire. They did this very well and thus the Corps remained whereas other enforcement agencies had come and gone. Eion had joined the Corps himself because he was a loyal citizen of the greatest empire the galaxy had ever seen; he still had his doubts about the infantry though.

While it was obvious that the rebel base had been a listening post—a one man post at that—Lieutenant Eion had yet to see evidence as to why it would have been so well hidden. The outpost operator was an idiot, that much was obvious, but the base had been well hidden and the equipment was high grade material.

In short, it wasn't a facility just thrown together to appease some rebel brass.

Despite his lack of intelligence, the rebel operative had somehow managed to last a full four days under interrogation, though Eion was certain he was about to break. Granted, a full day had been nothing more than an exercise of starvation, but the rest had been nothing but beatings and repetition. No one could last long under those circumstances, not even this annoying pesky rebel scum.

Eion had come to the Corps from the Core world of Yulant—an agricultural world—as an eager-to-serve citizen. He had rapidly lost such eagerness following the Officer's Academy and the subsequent Officer's War College. Upon completing the long and grueling process of becoming an Imperial officer, Eion had been ready to serve his commitment and honorably resign from service.

Instead, his family home had been blown up.

The Alliance to "Restore" the Republic—commonly known as the Rebellion—had raided the world in an early strike against the Core Worlds. It had been for publicity, nothing more. His entire immediate family and a good portion of his extended family had been murdered so the rebels could claim they were the real deal.

That had seen Lieutenant Junior Grade Eion request for a war commission. The contract saw an increase in pay and the understanding that Josan Eion would serve the Corps until the Rebellion was no more—plus six months of additional duty.

"Sir," Sergeant Ali Fria said as he knocked on the doorway that led into Eion's office, "the prisoner just broke down in tears. I think he's ready, sir."

Eion smiled cruelly from ear to ear as he rose from his desk and followed his subordinate out into the hallway.


	3. Episode I: Tie Fighter

Episode I: Tie Fighter

Space is something that few can begin to comprehend. Trillions upon trillions of stars expand outward across a vast field of black vacuum. The edges of space have never been—and possibly may never be—defined into an accepted boundary. The most scientific answer available was that it was big. Really big.

And now it was turning.

Captain Civé Rashon yanked hard on her controls and felt her tie respond in kind. The vessel was moving at just over ninety mph—megalight per hour—and Civé felt it as she burned into a hard roll followed by a straight dive. Her ships instruments indicated that her "eyeball" had just shot up to 100 mph, the starfighter's maximum speed.

Civé always enjoyed this part of the elaborate dance that was naval combat. While it was true that she was strapped into a tight metal ball that was literally made up of the bare minimum number of parts that were required to fly through space, she was still having the time of her life. To her, the craft responded to her thoughts rather than her physical movements.

Spiraling up again, she directed the starship's reserve energy into the engines and felt the speed of her vessel skyrocket. The lights dimmed and then ultimately switched to the low red light of the emergency power generators as the warning lights went off on her console. The mph gauge showed her accelerating from 100 mph to just under 120 mph—that speed was both illegal outside of the armed forces and considered a highly dangerous speed for such a lightly armored ship.

A warning klaxon went off behind her helmeted head alerting her to her persuader's continued presence of her seven 'o clock. Banking hard, Civé dove at an awkward angle again as she once more tried to lose the ship on her tail.

Luck would seem to be on her side, as the klaxon slowly died off as the ship above her vanished from her radar. Apparently its pilot could not keep up with her superb flying skills.

The twin P-S4 ion engines groaned as the tie continued to maneuver like it was a planetary-based 'hopper until its pilot suddenly realized she was literally flying into a trap.

"Gotcha!" Major Navisha Zola cried out over the ship-to-ship com system as her fighter came down upon Captain Rashon's. The tie unleashed a barrage of invisible ray bursts that effectively blew off Civé's right wing. Her craft spiraled through the blackness of space for a considerable time until Major Zola unlocked the training program restrictions inside the computer console.

As if the switch of life had been switched, the tie suddenly began to correct its descent and Civé was able to redirect her starship towards Zola's.

"I would have had you earlier if you hadn't broken all of those regs," Zola informed her over the radio as the two linked up in the depths of space before turning together and flying in formation towards the Imperial Star Destroyer _Asylum_.

"I have no idea what you're referring to ma'am," Captain Rashon said with a slight smirk on her face as their ships came closer to the destroyer and its hanger bay.

"I'm serious Civ," Zola said softly, "you fly like that and you could get yourself killed one day."

"Noted commander," Civé responded, touched, as her tie banked up towards the underbelly of the _Asylum_. The Imperial destroyer's bay shielding dropped and the two ties came up and docked in the large airlock. As the shields came back up and the pilots began to power down their ships, a tech crew came in with two large transport shuttles.

The support vehicles would load the tie fighters and then transport them through the large passages of the destroyer to the nearby main hanger. The entire process was arduous and stressful for the technicians, but it was a thousand times easier than the process of trying to land in the main bay and maneuver around all of the other docked starships there.

"I'm going to catch a few winks, wake me for chow," Zola said as she walked with Civé into the mammoth of hallways that was the _Aslum_.

"Will do," Civé replied and the two remained silent—it was frowned upon by command to engage in social conversation in sight of the enlisted personnel—until they reached the officers' shipboard housing. They exchanged goodbyes again and headed to their private rooms, which in Civé's case was a trio of rooms that served as what she viewed as her only home.

Her quarters—the same quarters issued to all O-3s—consisted of a spacious bedroom, a tight kitchen, and a space conscious fresher. The fresher had little in the way of feminine products or any products at all. Civé was a minimalist and refused to hunt down and restock a pharmacy of healthcare products like the females from her homeworld would. The kitchen was in the same order, she mainly took her meals in the officer's mess.

The bedroom was a different story though. The floors were strewn with clothing items and what personal affects that she had were scattered around her desks and drawers as well. The bed was unkempt as well. The only reason Civé had escaped a court martial for "gross lack of military discipline" was that Zola never inspected her room.

Sighing, Civé slipped out of her uniform—adding to the pile on the floor—and headed towards the fresher.

She had come into the Corps from Cardia, the bastion world of Imperial discipline and loyalty. Her family was well connected with the local government and when heiress Rashon had stated she wanted to commission into the Stormtrooper Corps—as opposed to the Army or Navy—her father had all but disowned her. The only reason that he hadn't was that the Empire had been in a desperate need of pilots at the time. Civé's above average scores and "modest donation" of funds to the Empire had seen her put into a fighter cockpit.

The only problem with that was that Civé was not as disciplined as she should have been. Being a woman made it worse; any mistake she made was instantly amplified to an exaggerated level. Captain Rashon had gone up and down the officer level one board on more than one occasion.

Major Zola, on the other hand, had commissioned by direct appointment from Coruscant. She had proven to be a truly superb fighter pilot as well. Her desire for order and her strong loyalty had seen her promptly promoted through the Corps.

Some said the only reason she wasn't a commander at this point was that she kept denying the promotion until Civé was capable of taking over the 5th Tie Wing. In reality, it was because command refused to see a woman placed that highly on the organizational table.

Finishing her shower, Civé grabbed a dark towel off the rack and dried off before securing a second towel in her hair. Moving slowly through her messy room, the pilot found a fresh uniform and laid it out on her bed. She then went and sat down at her desk and checked her computer for any recent mail.

Her father had yet to respond to any of her holos.

Sighing, she sat up and began to get dressed in her uniform, along with the station pin and code cylinders and other equipment that an Imperial officer had to wear. Intending to head to the ships datalibrary for a quiet period of relaxation before the evening meal, Captain Rashon had just opened her doors when the klaxon went off.

"All hands, battle stations!"

_Mother of the Emperor..._

Civé sprinted down the corridor and out into the main hallways of the ship's central structure. The entire passageway was jammed with personnel trying to reach their stations and because of this it took Civé far longer than she would have liked to reach the hanger bay.

"Captain, I trust you enjoyed your downtime!" Major Zola snapped from her spot by her tie. The commander of the fifth was suited up and waiting for the pilot hatch to open so that she could board her vessel.

"Yes ma'am!"

"Then I suggest you board your vessel, we have hostiles!"

Civé was almost to her tie—which was next to Zola's and marked with the identifier AS-05-2—when the ship shuddered as the heavy turbolaser batteries began to fire. That meant there was something out there that the ship felt threatened by.

Great.

"Fifth Flight, this is Five One," Major Zola said over the coms as Civé slid into her cockpit and began to warm up her systems, "I want a fight check, over."

"Five Four, hot."

"Five Three, hot."

"Five Five, hot."

Civé was late and she knew it, once her systems all read green in the thinly lit interior of her fighter she hit the com button, "Five Two, hot."

"Five Six, hot."

"Five Seven, hot."

"Five Eight, hot."

"Five Nine, hot."

"Five Ten, hot."

"Five Eleven, hot."

"Five Twelve, hot."

"Fifth Flight, dust off and lets go hunting."

The wine of ion engines could be heard all over the hanger as dozens of tie fighters and bombers began to lift off into the upper levels of the bay. Below them, Stormtroopers were forming up by rank and unit to board shuttles that would let them board whatever it was the destroyer had come across.

_It's gotta be big to need those jarheads..._

The starships began to fly out of the hanger by squadron and designation. The expendable fighters went first, followed by the bombers, and then ultimately the transports. After the third squadron had sailed out, the Fifth was right behind it.

_Holy Force..._

A pair of large starships were floating just off the bow of the _Asylum_. They were coated in weapons and a massive black ball surrounded by sun rays was painted onto the hulls of both ships. Surrounding them were clouds of Starviper Assault Craft.

_Black Sun's attacking an Imperial man-of-war?_

A loud beep drew Civé attention to her console, which showed her the current plan of battle and the operation order for the Fifth. Zola got on the comline a few seconds later and confirmed the orders before ordering her squadron into action.

The ties accelerated to 85 mph—attack speed—before breaking off into their separate attack groups. Zola led two fighters down one trajectory, while Civé, Five Three, and Five Four led their own trio of ties into the laser fire filled fray.

The blackness of space was intermixed with clouds of Tie Fighters and swarms of Starvipers. The smaller, eyeball resembling craft were more numerous, but they were not as fast or as powerful as the vipers. The golden X-shaped vessels tore apart numerous ties—though several of their own number became clouds of hot ionized gas as well.

Civé was fighting for her life as she maneuvered around the battlefield—Five Seven had just gone down and Five Eight was having trouble staying on her flank as they maneuvered—trying to take down as many vipers as she could.

Seeing an opportunity, she dove right—Five Eight staying loyally behind her—and locked onto a viper that was just about to complete a full 360 degree spin. The viper came out of the spin with its guns pointed straight at Civé's tie, but the pilot was too stunned to pull the trigger.

Screaming, Captian Rashon jammed her thumbs down on her controls fire pins and watched as green laser energy spat out from her cannons and blew the starcraft into a billion heated bits. Behind her, Five Eight broke off to avoid oncoming enemy fire. The laser fire brushed Civé's wing and her ship fumbled slightly, but she regained control in time to dive after the viper now chasing down Five Eight.

The viper fired off another barrage at Five Eight, this time nearly scoring a hit, before Civé locked onto the ship and sent it a healthy dosage of laser energy as well. The viper exploded colorfully and Civé linked back up with Five Eight. The two fighters then preformed a 280 degree spiral turn back towards the main action.

Laser fire streaked in every direction and explosions seemingly blossomed wherever free space existed. The two heavy duty frigates—Gozanti Cruisers—were in the middle of it all and they seemed the worse for wear too. Smoke and oxygen seemed to be leaking out everywhere while what few on board weapons that remained operable continued to spew out laser fire. A lucky turbolaser round from the _Asylum_ hit the leftmost frigate in the center and the entire starship cracked in half in a brilliant flash of heat and light.

The effect was almost instantaneous; the few remaining vipers began to pull back towards the now sole frigate as anti-fighter weaponry picked up in an attempt to divert Imperial pursuers.

A fresh beep popped up on Civé's console and she saw that the Imperial naval forces were being withdrawn back to the _Asylum_. This struck her as odd, but like her fellow pilots she obeyed without question. The tattered remains of the Fifth were almost to the docking bay when they saw—rather than felt—a massive bloom of heat radiate outwards from the remaining frigate. The vessel of war slowed to a stop before completely detonating into several dozen chunks of heated metal and ion fumes.

_The Stormtroopers must be proud of that little trick..._

Cive looked away from the carnage just in time to see a new notice on her board. They were being sent back in to mop up.

_Here we go._

The Fifth reformed and began to fly towards the debris field that had once been a Black Sun fleet. There was maybe half a dozen fighters still operable, but only three or four looked like they could fight. Looking around, she saw that they had lost four ties—a fourth of the unit—and orders came out over the console dictating the new order of battle.

As the squadron broke into three groups of three, Civé felt at ease. The vipers turned towards them and laser fire once again lit up the darkness of space.


End file.
